The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1

THE FLOWER-ANGELS

 
  Of old, with goodwill from the skies—
    God's message to them given—
  The angels came, a glad surprise,
    And went again to heaven.
 
 
  But now the angels are grown rare,
    Needed no more as then;
  Far lowlier messengers can bear
    God's goodwill unto men.
 
 
  Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn
    Breaks from the earth below;
  Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn,
    The noontide roses glow.
 
 
  The snowdrops first—the dawning gray;
    Then out the roses burn!
  They speak their word, grow dim—away
    To holy dust return.
 
 
  Of oracles were little dearth,
    Should heaven continue dumb;
  From lowliest corners of the earth
    God's messages will come.
 
 
  In thy face his we see, O Lord,
    And are no longer blind;
  Need not so much his rarer word,
    In flowers even read his mind.
 

TO MY SISTER,
ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY

I

 
  Old fables are not all a lie
    That tell of wondrous birth,
  Of Titan children, father Sky,
    And mighty mother Earth.
 
 
  Yea, now are walking on the ground
    Sons of the mingled brood;
  Yea, now upon the earth are found
    Such daughters of the Good.
 
 
  Earth-born, my sister, thou art still
    A daughter of the sky;
  Oh, climb for ever up the hill
    Of thy divinity!
 
 
  To thee thy mother Earth is sweet,
    Her face to thee is fair;
  But thou, a goddess incomplete,
    Must climb the starry stair.
 

II

 
  Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend,
    Wouldst see the Father's face?
  To all his other children bend,
    And take the lowest place.
 
 
  Be like a cottage on a moor,
    A covert from the wind,
  With burning fire and open door,
    And welcome free and kind.
 
 
  Thus humbly doing on the earth
    The things the earthly scorn,
  Thou shalt declare the lofty birth
    Of all the lowly born.
 

III

 
  Be then thy sacred womanhood
    A sign upon thee set,
  A second baptism—understood—
    For what thou must be yet.
 
 
  For, cause and end of all thy strife,
    And unrest as thou art,
  Still stings thee to a higher life
    The Father at thy heart.
 

OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH!

 
  Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies
    Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow;
  But spring is floating up the southern skies,
    And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below.
 
 
  Let me persuade: in dull December's day
    We scarce believe there is a month of June;
  But up the stairs of April and of May
    The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon.
 
 
  Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest.
    O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou.
  He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;—
    And in his heart thy prayer is resting now.
 

WILD FLOWERS

 
  Content Primroses,
  With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care,
  Peeping as from his mother's lap the child
  Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!—
  Hanging Harebell,
  Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes,
  Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!—
  Fluttering-wild
  Anemone, so well
  Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free,
  Yieldest thee, helpless—wilfully,
  With Take me or leave me,
  Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone!—
  Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming
  Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!—
  Fire-winged Pimpernel,
  Communing with some hidden well,
  And secrets with the sun-god holding,
  At fixed hour folding and unfolding!—
  How is it with you, children all,
  When human children on you fall,
  Gather you in eager haste,
  Spoil your plenty with their waste—
  Fill and fill their dropping hands?
  Feel you hurtfully disgraced
  By their injurious demands?
  Do you know them from afar,
  Shuddering at their merry hum,
  Growing faint as near they come?
  Blind and deaf they think you are—
  Is it only ye are dumb?
  You alive at least, I think,
  Trembling almost on the brink
  Of our lonely consciousness:
  If it be so,
  Take this comfort for your woe,
  For the breaking of your rest,
  For the tearing in your breast,
  For the blotting of the sun,
  For the death too soon begun,
  For all else beyond redress—
  Or what seemeth so to be—
  That the children's wonder-springs
  Bubble high at sight of you,
  Lovely, lowly, common things:
  In you more than you they see!
  Take this too—that, walking out,
  Looking fearlessly about,
  Ye rebuke our manhood's doubt,
  And our childhood's faith renew;
  So that we, with old age nigh,
  Seeing you alive and well
  Out of winter's crucible,
  Hearing you, from graveyard crept,
  Tell us that ye only slept—
  Think we die not, though we die.
 
 
  Thus ye die not, though ye die—
  Only yield your being up,
  Like a nectar-holding cup:
  Deaf, ye give to them that hear,
  With a greatness lovely-dear;
  Blind, ye give to them that see—
  Poor, but bounteous royally.
  Lowly servants to the higher,
  Burning upwards in the fire
  Of Nature's endless sacrifice,
  In great Life's ascent ye rise,
  Leave the lowly earth behind,
  Pass into the human mind,
  Pass with it up into God,
  Whence ye came though through the clod—
  Pass, and find yourselves at home
  Where but life can go and come;
  Where all life is in its nest,
  At loving one with holy Best;—
  Who knows?—with shadowy, dawning sense
  Of a past, age-long somnolence!
 

SPRING SONG

 
      Days of old,
  Ye are not dead, though gone from me;
        Ye are not cold,
  But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea.
 
 
  The sun brings back the swallows fast
        O'er the sea;
  When he cometh at the last,
  The days of old come back to me.
 

SUMMER SONG

 
  "Murmuring, 'twixt a murmur and moan,
  Many a tune in a single tone,
  For every ear with a secret true—
  The sea-shell wants to whisper to you."
 
 
  "Yes—I hear it—far and faint,
  Like thin-drawn prayer of drowsy saint;
  Like the muffled sounds of a summer rain;
  Like the wash of dreams in a weary brain."
 
 
  "By smiling lip and fixed eye,
  You are hearing a song within the sigh:
  The murmurer has many a lovely phrase—
  Tell me, darling, the words it says."
 
 
  "I hear a wind on a boatless main
  Sigh like the last of a vanishing pain;
  On the dreaming waters dreams the moon—
  But I hear no words in the doubtful tune."
 
 
  "If it tell thee not that I love thee well,
  'Tis a senseless, wrinkled, ill-curved shell:
  If it be not of love, why sigh or sing?
  'Tis a common, mechanical, stupid thing!"
 
 
  "It murmurs, it whispers, with prophet voice
  Of a peace that comes, of a sealed choice;
  It says not a word of your love to me,
  But it tells me I love you eternally."
 

AUTUMN SONG

 
  Autumn clouds are flying, flying
    O'er the waste of blue;
  Summer flowers are dying, dying,
    Late so lovely new.
  Labouring wains are slowly rolling
    Home with winter grain;
  Holy bells are slowly tolling
    Over buried men.
 
 
  Goldener light sets noon a sleeping
    Like an afternoon;
  Colder airs come stealing, creeping
    From the misty moon;
  And the leaves, of old age dying,
    Earthy hues put on;
  Out on every lone wind sighing
    That their day is gone.
 
 
  Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking
    Down to winter low;
  And our hearts are thinking, thinking
    Of the sleet and snow;
  For our sun is slowly sliding
    Down the hill of might;
  And no moon is softly gliding
    Up the slope of night.
 
 
  See the bare fields' pillaged prizes
    Heaped in golden glooms!
  See, the earth's outworn sunrises
    Dream in cloudy tombs!
  Darkling flowers but wait the blowing
    Of a quickening wind;
  And the man, through Death's door going,
    Leaves old Death behind.
 
 
  Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter;
    Let the gold turn gray;
  Feet, though feeble, still may falter
    Toward the better day!
  Brother, let not weak faith linger
    O'er a withered thing;
  Mark how Autumn's prophet finger
    Burns to hues of Spring.
 

WINTER SONG

 
  They were parted then at last?
    Was it duty, or force, or fate?
  Or did a worldly blast
    Blow-to the meeting-gate?
 
 
  An old, short story is this!
    A glance, a trembling, a sigh,
  A gaze in the eyes, a kiss—
    Why will it not go by!
 

PICTURE SONGS

I

 
  A pale green sky is gleaming;
    The steely stars are few;
  The moorland pond is steaming
    A mist of gray and blue.
 
 
  Along the pathway lonely
    My horse is walking slow;
  Three living creatures only,
    He, I, and a home-bound crow!
 
 
  The moon is hardly shaping
    Her circle in the fog;
  A dumb stream is escaping
    Its prison in the bog.
 
 
  But in my heart are ringing
    Tones of a lofty song;
  A voice that I know, is singing,
    And my heart all night must long.
 

II

 
  Over a shining land—
    Once such a land I knew—
  Over its sea, by a soft wind fanned,
    The sky is all white and blue.
 
 
  The waves are kissing the shores,
    Murmuring love and for ever;
  A boat gleams green, and its timeful oars
    Flash out of the level river.
 
 
  Oh to be there with thee
    And the sun, on wet sands, my love!
  With the shining river, the sparkling sea,
    And the radiant sky above!
 

III

 
  The autumn winds are sighing
    Over land and sea;
  The autumn woods are dying
    Over hill and lea;
  And my heart is sighing, dying,
    Maiden, for thee.
 
 
  The autumn clouds are flying
    Homeless over me;
  The nestless birds are crying
    In the naked tree;
  And my heart is flying, crying,
    Maiden, to thee.
 
 
  The autumn sea is crawling
    Up the chilly shore;
  The thin-voiced firs are calling
    Ghostily evermore:
  Maiden, maiden! I am falling
    Dead at thy door.
 

IV

 
  The waters are rising and flowing
    Over the weedy stone—
  Over it, over it going:
    It is never gone.
 
 
  Waves upon waves of weeping
    Went over the ancient pain;
  Glad waves go over it leaping—
    Still it rises again!
 

A DREAM SONG

 
  I dreamed of a song—I heard it sung;
  In the ear of my soul its strange notes rung.
  What were its words I could not tell,
  Only the voice I heard right well,
  For its tones unearthly my spirit bound
  In a calm delirium of mystic sound—
  Held me floating, alone and high,
  Placeless and silent, drinking my fill
  Of dews that from cloudless skies distil
  On desert places that thirst and sigh.
  'Twas a woman's voice, deep calling to deep,
  Rousing old echoes that all day sleep
  In cavern and solitude, each apart,
  Here and there in the waiting heart;—
  A voice with a wild melodious cry
  Reaching and longing afar and high.
  Sorrowful triumph, and hopeful strife,
  Gainful death, and new-born life,
  Thrilled in each note of the prophet-song.
  In my heart it said: O Lord, how long
  Shall we groan and travail and faint and pray,
  Ere thy lovely kingdom bring the day!
 

1842.

AT MY WINDOW AFTER SUNSET

 
  Heaven and the sea attend the dying day,
    And in their sadness overflow and blend—
  Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray:
    Far out amid them my pale soul I send.
 
 
  For, as they mingle, so mix life and death;
    An hour draws near when my day too will die;
  Already I forecast unheaving breath,
    Eviction on the moorland of yon sky.
 
 
  Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone,
    Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space!
  At board and hearth from this time forth unknown!
    Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face!
 
 
  Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea!
    Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky!
  Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee!
    I am not dead; I live, and cannot die!
 
 
  Where are ye, loved ones, hither come before?
    Did you fare thus when first ye came this way?
  Somewhere there must be yet another door!—
    A door in somewhere from this dreary gray!
 
 
  Come walking over watery hill and glen,
    Or stoop your faces through yon cloud perplext;
  Come, any one of dearest, sacred ten,
    And bring me patient hoping for the next.
 
 
  Maker of heaven and earth, father of me,
    My words are but a weak, fantastic moan!
  Were I a land-leaf drifting on the sea,
    Thou still wert with me; I were not alone!
 
 
  I am in thee, O father, lord of sky,
    And lord of waves, and lord of human souls!
  In thee all precious ones to me more nigh
    Than if they rushing came in radiant shoals!
 
 
  I shall not be alone although I die,
    And loved ones should delay their coming long;
  Though I saw round me nought but sea and sky,
    Bare sea and sky would wake a holy song.
 
 
  They are thy garments; thou art near within,
    Father of fathers, friend-creating friend!
  Thou art for ever, therefore I begin;
    Thou lov'st, therefore my love shall never end!
 
 
  Let loose thy giving, father, on thy child;
    I pray thee, father, give me everything;
  Give me the joy that makes the children wild;
    Give throat and heart an old new song to sing.
 
 
  Ye are my joy, great father, perfect Christ,
    And humble men of heart, oh, everywhere!
  With all the true I keep a hoping tryst;
    Eternal love is my eternal prayer.
 

1890.

A FATHER TO A MOTHER

 
  When God's own child came down to earth,
    High heaven was very glad;
  The angels sang for holy mirth;
    Not God himself was sad!
 
 
  Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret?
    Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow!
  The little one will not forget;
    It's only till to-morrow!
 

THE TEMPLE OF GOD

 
  In the desert by the bush,
  Moses to his heart said Hush.
 
 
  David on his bed did pray;
  God all night went not away.
 
 
  From his heap of ashes foul
  Job to God did lift his soul,
 
 
  God came down to see him there,
  And to answer all his prayer.
 
 
  On a dark hill, in the wind,
  Jesus did his father find,
 
 
  But while he on earth did fare,
  Every spot was place of prayer;
 
 
  And where man is any day,
  God can not be far away.
 
 
  But the place he loveth best,
  Place where he himself can rest,
 
 
  Where alone he prayer doth seek,
  Is the spirit of the meek.
 
 
  To the humble God doth come;
  In his heart he makes his home.